


Homeward Bound

by Seek_The_Mist



Series: The Blackout [1]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Anal Sex, Blindfolds, Bondage, Coming Untouched, Exhibitionism, Heavy Petting, Laurent/Multi public scene with no full sex intercourse involved, M/M, Marriage Anniversary, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Play, Politics, Post-Canon, Public Sex, Questionable Veretians Traditions, Rimming, Voyeurism, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 17:53:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17626892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seek_The_Mist/pseuds/Seek_The_Mist
Summary: In Vere, aRécurrencemarks the five year anniversary of every married couple, from humble commoners to Kings and Queens. The Kingdom hasn't seen royal celebration for two decades when Laurent decides to hold one.In the distance, the bells of Arles chimed up, marking the eleventh hour of Laurent and Damen’s fifth anniversary, one ring at the time.





	Homeward Bound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phoenixflight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixflight/gifts).



> YES, HELLO, IT'S KINKBINGO TIME!
> 
>  _But Mist_ , you might say, _this fic is more than 12k long, isn't kinkbingo a smutfest?_ You're absolutely right, but I just had this crazy idea and I had to build around it to make it work with all the filth and all the feels and everything we might ever want in canonverse.
> 
> For the way the fic is built, you can trust me when I say it's very Damen/Laurent focused, but I didn't give away everything in the tags to keep the suspence. However, if you think you require a more in-depth but spoilery content warning you can [jump down to the end notes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17626892#work_endnotes) and there will be one. 
> 
> All my thanks to Elle (l_cloudy) and Josselin, that beted this fic thoroughly. And yes, Joss, in this house we're very attached to our British English. All the kudos to Luna and Lola, that cheered all the way through.  
> Momo (linecrosser), who I love and cherish, will provide us all with a surprise at the end of the fic ;))))
> 
> I would like to gift this to Lu (phoenixflight), who has something very special coming up. I'm emotional on your behalf, and of course _thank you again for co-organising the Kinkbingo!_ I love you, please have fun!
> 
>  
> 
>  **Ticking off:** Exhibitionism; public sex; voyeurism; +Blindfolds; +Bondage; +Nipple Play; +Strength/Muscles

  
  
  


Midsummer had passed by more than two months ago, but heat clung to the air. Not even the excellent position of Marlas — so close to the sea to the west, nearing the uplands on the east — seemed to beckon the strong winds Laurent had hoped to find. The sun had come up more than an hour ago, and woke him into a reluctant restlessness. It was now too high to ignore.

Laurent disentangled himself from the thin linen he insisted on covering himself with at night regardless of the temperature and made his way, barefoot, to the tall windows, opening the lower section to encourage the relative freshness of the morning air to enter the room.  
On the bed, Damen slept peacefully, still turned towards the side of the bed that Laurent had left vacant. Summer didn’t bother Damen, especially this far north from Ios, and he contented himself with sleeping bare-chested. The span of muscles and skin, interrupted by nothing but the gold cuff on the left wrist, was a view Laurent was incredibly fond of, but nothing could fully counter how much heat Damen radiated beside him. However, Laurent would not stick to his own chambers, on the other side of the connecting doors in the upper floor of the fort, and they both knew it.

Laurent hoisted himself up on the window seat and leaned his back heavily against the stone of the alcove. He sighed, eyes half-closed, and willed his skin to cool down.

Damen found him like this, less than ana hour later, surveying the fort — gardens around the palace that made way to the town within the walls, and, in the distance, green, and red and golden fields, heavy with the year’s harvest. 

“Good morning,” Damen murmured.

With Laurent sitting so high up, Damen didn’t even have to bend to kiss his temple. His lips were warm where Laurent had just barely managed to get rid of the sweat, and yet Laurent wanted them forever.

“Morning.” Laurent lifted a hand to run it over Damen’s bare arm, all the way down his wrist. Their cuffs clinked together, softly.

The town buzzed with a rising tide of activity, several floors below, but Damen and Laurent had held their combined council the day prior and could afford to take some time more, before joining the flow once again.

“Too warm to sleep?” Damen suggested, kissing a line along Laurent’s jaw and proceeding down his neck when Laurent tilted his head in an offering.

“Mmhn, yes,” Laurent sighed, vague, staring distractedly at the landscape while Damen’s breath against his skin filled his senses. “I was thinking, also…”

“Of what?”

“Of autumn. Everything was turning red and brown, when we married. Do you remember?” 

Damen smiled against his neck, and lifted his head to look at Laurent. “Of course I remember. What about it?”

Laurent studiously kept his gaze on the country — their countries, so close to what used to be an impenetrable border riddled of militia. “It will be five years, in two weeks. I feel like it will still be green, rather than ready for fall, this time.”

He felt the focus of Damen’s eyes on the side of his head. With the benefits of a long habit, Damen's attention was difficult for Laurent to deflect with dialectics. “Would that be troublesome?”

Laurent inhaled and exhaled, slow enough to be almost studious about it, and pressed his weight more heavily between Damen and the stone. “Do you know the Récurrence?”

“I don’t. Is that a Veretian festivity?” Damen brought an arm around Laurent’s shoulders, just so that Laurent could curl more properly against his chest without twisting on the window seat. It was too warm, and yet exactly what Laurent wanted.

 _Festivity_ wasn’t the most accurate definition for it, but Laurent still hummed his assent. It was a good enough approximation. “It’s a celebration. For every lustrum spent in wedlock, as you would say in Akielon.”

Damen huffed, with a clear undertone of a smile. “So that’s the plan for two weeks time, and it keeps you awake in the early morning?”

Laurent thinned his lips, and too many seconds of silence stretched by. It must count as deflecting a question, and at that point it was just as good to go forward in the conversation on his own. “I remember, when I was six, Auguste was organising Father and Mother's. It was their fourth time, and they never got to celebrate another.”

Here, Laurent was met by an attentive silence. He knew Damen was listening, but he would not be interrupted in his recollections, for as rare as they might be. Such was the power of Auguste’s name, or more generally of every time Laurent shared a piece of his memories, coming from that unspeakable place that always felt like _before_ , whereas the Laurent Damen had always known existed only in the _after_.

“There is a feast for the whole court, of course, which I partook in, but the Récurrence is different. I wasn't allowed to attend, it was too late at night, but Auguste let me help choose the flowers and see the room decorated.”

One of Damen’s broad hands — well-known and well-loved — came up to comb through Laurent’s hair. It was all too easy, to rest his forehead against the bend of Damen’s wrists, soaking in a gesture charged with familiarity rather than sensuality. 

“Will there be someone to organise it for us?” Damen asked, in a blind assent to an unspoken question. 

Laurent turned his head into the touch, just enough to look at Damen, not so abruptly to make him separate. “It’s just...it’s very _Veretian_ , Damen.”

“Which is to say I wouldn’t be welcome to celebrate it with you? It would be taken as an insult?”

It wasn’t a trick question, not considering that there had been instances — from Akielos and from Vere — in which they had to act as the separate Kings they were, in order not to upset delicate equilibria with unsteady power imbalances. However, this situation didn’t compare. Laurent shook his head. 

“It would be fine, you are my husband. Arguably it would be welcome to have you joining — it’s a very old custom, it would be well received as a proof of commitment…”

“But it is _very Veretian_ ,” Damen cut gently through the long-winded explanation. He prompted a bit more, when Laurent nodded. “Explain it to me.”

Flocks of swallows were launching themselves off the turrets of the fort, whistling in the clear summer air. The sun was high enough, now, to glitter off the windows, and the market in the main square was probably about to begin. There wouldn’t be a moment just as quiet, just as intimate, if he waited longer.

Laurent straightened up to look at Damen properly, took a deep breath, and did as he had been asked.

By the end of it — when there was nothing more he could say about the Récurrence — Damen was scrutinising him. He was too handsome, too attentive, for someone like Laurent who only knew how to move through things with an inherent frenzy. And yet Laurent caught the unexpressed question, the usual effort to navigate through the idiosyncrasies of Laurent’s will. He nodded, just a bit.

Damen followed the gesture, silent for a few more seconds. “That’s fine,” he deliberated, at the end. “Tell me what I have to do to help with the organisation.” 

The flood of relief that surged through Laurent’s ribs was unexpected, and as such difficult to handle. They might have had enough time to discuss how Laurent intended to approach the logistics of the event, but instead Laurent grabbed his own nightshirt and dragged it up and away. The thin linen floated down to the hardwood floor, just as Damen slotted agreeably between Laurent’s spread legs. 

Soon enough, the press against the stone of the alcove served a very different purpose.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Seated across a small table of delicacies and sweet dessert wine, Berenger regarded Laurent quizzically.

“You wish to call for a Récurrence in ten days time,” Berenger repeated, as if for all the requests on diplomacy, politics and at times downright treason he had ever had to shoulder, this was his King’s weirdest request.

“That’s what I said,” Laurent said, lifting one eyebrow, even while examining Berenger’s reactions to the news. “Do you suppose it will be feasible?” 

Berenger twirled the glass in a mindless reflex, the dark wine spinning in a circle inside. “Timewise, for the same reason it was a good moment for a marriage, it should be easy enough to gather the court for the public celebration...and for the private event.”

Laurent nodded, a slight tilt of the head to signify that he would entrust the logistics of it to his councillor. After two seconds of considerations, however, he turned to Ancel, when he approached to blatantly steal the glass from Berenger’s hand and take a long sip. 

“Tell me how it will be received,” Laurent requested. 

Ancel smiled sideways, and gave the glass back to Berenger before sitting on the armrest of his master’s chair. Even in the relative privacy of the palace in Verenne — appropriate for the Lord Procurer of the region but still sober enough to fit Berenger’s tastes — Ancel was still the most ostentatiously luxurious part of Berenger’s possessions. Ancel, as Laurent, was closer to thirty than twenty now, a man rather than an elusive young vixen, but the asymmetric cut his red hair now sported had been imitated by countless pets in Arles, as was his makeup. More importantly, for Laurent’s purpose, Ancel gathered the thoughts of the Lords for more than a dutiful report: he knew how to tackle the priorities, how to channel and shape the narrative at court. It was paramount that he did it for the Kings, and not against them.

“It’s a good idea,” Ancel sentenced, after an appropriately timed dramatic pause. “The Récurrence is a bit in disuse — at least among the people that count. No one sane would have wanted to do it in the Regent’s court, with the Regent’s rules.” It was blunt, brutal, and Laurent appreciated how clean the cut of it was, how manageable in the lack of residual undertones to be addressed. They all knew it as the truth; it wouldn’t be the centre of discussion. “Vere will approve the return of some traditions, among all these innovations. Berenger is surely old enough to remember how it’s done properly.”

Berenger rolled his eyes at the nagging, but let Ancel steal his glass again. There was a subtle satisfaction in him, in seeing Ancel in his element, weaponising gossip even though he rarely found deep political nuances entertaining.

Laurent tilted his head in a thankful acknowledgment and took a sip from his own glass. “There will have to be members from the Akielon side of the court,” he said, not quite a question.

“Well, I would hope so, or what is the point?” Ancel smiled sharply, waving off the possible diplomatic issue as a non-concern in this setting. “I could make the list for all people in attendance…”

“Not all the people,” Laurent cut him off, uncompromising. “I will deal personally with the restricted circle, but you’re welcome to make suggestions for the list of who, among the Inner Court, will be included.”

Ancel left the armrest and gave a small little bow of obeisance, every ounce the impeccable courtier. Still, Laurent couldn’t shake the impression that refusing to delegate the entirety of Récurrence said more about himself that he was willing to discuss with anyone. And yet, it was within his rights to dust off this tradition and do it in whichever way he saw fit. 

“I will sent a courier with the documents within a couple of days. You will be expected at Arles in a week.”

It was Berenger’s turn to rise and bow. “Yes, my King.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


“You’re causing quite a ruckus.”

Though the restricted Council had adjourned, Vannes still sat on the left side of the table, making a great scene of writing the report for the Royal Annals.

“Am I, now?” Laurent asked, applying his seal to a residual stack of documents the approval of which had just been ratified. 

Vannes lifted her quill with a last swirl on paper and waved it between two fingers, waiting for the ink to dry and regarding Laurent with deep green eyes. “The court hasn’t been so excited since the visit of the Kemptian Royal family. There is a healthy ring of bets, and by healthy I mean that some people will have to sell some of the silverware if they lose.”

Laurent felt a smile pulling at his lips, and let it show. “Interesting. What are the high stakes?”

“The most popular is that you will get the Exalted’s name wrong between eight and ten times.”

It was a lot, but considering the pacing it would mean roughly one wrong for every right. “And what did you bet on?”

Vannes’s smirk deepened, and she stared at Laurent with a knowing look. “I gave you less than three times, a laughing matter apparently. The most hopeless of romantics go with five. On the other side, meet the prurient corner, claiming less than two right calls.”

Laurent hummed, noncommittal. He knew there would be more bets — on his pleasure, or lack of thereof, on his pleas or requests to stop before time — and he wasn’t sure he wanted a comprehensive list.

“You haven’t told me,” he asked, instead. “If you will be joining the restricted circle.” 

Running a finger along the length of the quill, Vannes lounged back against the tall wooden backrest of the council chair. She tilted her head towards the other side of the room, where Damen was speaking with Estienne. “Did _he_ accept your invitation?”

It was almost time for the servants to come over and light all the candles in the rooms, if the Kings and their Lords and Ladies wished to stay more. The late afternoon sun cast weird shadows throughout the room, and Estienne’s sharp profile was even more recognisable. He was more than a head shorter than Damen, but the initial awkwardness he had harboured towards his King’s husband had subsided over time. A strong part might have been played by Laurent, who made no secret of the fact that Damen had interceded for Estienne and how to deal with the possible caving of his loyalties towards the then Regent’s requests. But at the end, Estienne had contributed to keep Arles in shape for Laurent to return from Ios — granting him time to tend to Damen’s recovery — and if things had to be remembered they had to be remembered in full. 

“He did. Not everyone can have a penchant to keep to keep their King waiting.”

Vannes laughed, unfrazzled, for just a second. When she spoke again, it was once more deceptively blasé. “Do you want him there?”

Laurent lifted a eyebrow, and played with a lit candle to melt more sealing wax. “Why else would I have invited him?”

“Because you catapulted yourself in this thing and we all know how little your craving for a well-designed game has to do with your enjoyment of it?” The final upturn was almost an afterthought, the pretence of a question that appeared fully rhetorical.

“I’m touched,” Laurent commented, sarcastically, leaning heavily against his golden seal to stick it properly to the paper. He pushed forward, rather than linger on the statement. “I want him there, and I want the Récurrence to be _proper_.”

Vannes kept in silence for a bit, and Laurent refused to return her stare. He fell back on looking at Damen, instead, the cut of heavy fabric falling down the commanding curve of his back, so clean against the heavy decorations of carved window frames and the geometrical tiles on the floor. The cuff on his wrist caught a lot of the grazing light, a proud reminder of a past in which he would have been out of place in these rooms that now belonged to him as much as they did to Laurent.

“Would you come?” He broke the silence first, and turned towards Vannes again. “I would rather not have to ask anyone else.”

Some undertone must have rang with enough sincerity to stop Vannes from her tidying up of papers. She closed her folder and raised up, looking down at Laurent. It was another long exchange of stares, intense and layered with all the years they’ve known each other.

At the end, she just smiled, a little sly, as if it was nothing.

“Of course.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


The servants had cleared most of the table in the day apartments, where Damen and Laurent had convened for a rare dinner in relative intimacy. They lounged on a couch, after dessert, and Laurent admittedly enjoyed the distracted care with which Damen was peeling him an orange — for no bigger reason that Laurent liked the fruit and disliked the lingering sensation on his fingers. Laurent sagged more heavily against the pillows, basking in the subtle pampering and the deep familiarity of Damen feeding him one wedge at the time. He chewed on it slowly, brushing his lips along Damen’s fingers. 

“Vannes accepted my invitation.” 

Damen didn’t bat an eye at the sudden introduction of a new topic, and just gave Laurent more orange. “I feel like there is no way in the world she would miss it. Don’t tell me you’re surprised.”

“She’s my First Councillor, there is no way she wouldn’t at least be in the audience.” Laurent chewed slowly, licking along his lips. 

A slow rolling of Damen’s eyes seemed to suggest that he wasn’t impressed by the argument. “Berenger and Estienne will be there, I’m reasonably sure she wouldn’t want the kind of statement that sitting in the audience would be.”

“What Veretian reasoning, I’m impressed,” Laurent drawled, exaggerated.

“Don’t be too satisfied, it will always be needlessly convoluted,” Damen warned, but there was laughter in his voice. “You described it as an intimate event for the inner court. So of course it’s political.”

It was Laurent’s turn to laugh, unabashed. It was an advanced game of court, set at a level that made the ranks of friends and family a matter of state. There was no point in denying it. 

“I’m still glad she accepted.”

Damen smiled knowingly at the confession, and abandoned the empty orange peel on the plate on the table. “Are you not going to ask me about Nikandros and Pallas?”

With a low huff, Laurent let himself slouch more, resting his temple on the corner of Damen’s shoulder. It was fresher, here in Arles, enough that physical contact was actually a welcomed possibility. “They’re going to come, because you asked them to.”

“That’s a lot of contempt for the Kyroi of Ios and Mellos.” It didn't sound very reprimanding, even less so with two fingers insinuating in the high collar of Laurent’s jacket, to stroke along his neck.

Laurent’s eyelids batted a couple of times too much, following the sensation. He had thought, years ago, that habit would lessen the impossible lure of Damen’s touch, but it didn’t. “Tell me I’m wrong, then. That you explained it to them, that they were outraged and that I will have to find two more members of the Akielon high society — meaningful to our Kingdoms, also — to join us.”

Damen shook his head, running two fingers along the hem of the high collar until he got to the fastening and began to unknot them, one-handedly. “Nik asked if we both lost our mind; Pallas had a moment of very contained panic. I reiterated the value of it. I can’t say that you’re wrong, they both agreed.”

Tilting his head to leave Damen more space, Laurent hummed in satisfaction, smiling wickedly. Silence fell for a bit, in low breathing and the brush of fabric against fabric every time Damen changed the roaming of his fingers — from Laurent’s neck, to his hair, to the shell of his ear, and back. It made Laurent want to stop breathing altogether.

“You’ll handle it for me, won’t you?” Laurent whispered, behind closed eyes. “Once we’re there.”

The fingers sliding along the curve of Laurent’s jaw stop under his chin, prompting him to look back at Damen with a delicate tilt upwards. 

“It was my understanding that you could call a halt, if you wished.” Damen was staring at him with the same focus he had the day Laurent had explained him the Récurrence, and once again when Laurent had shared the lists of inner and restricted circles before sending them off to Ancel.

“I can, I could.” Laurent confirms, looking back with half-closed eyes. “But you’re my husband and it’ll ring different if you rein it in.”

A subtle crease ran along Damen’s eyebrows. Several breaths passed between them, but Damen’s fingers brushed again along the curve of Laurent’s chin, reaching upwards. “You want me to.”

“I want you to.”

“Then it’s done.”

The unshakable certainty of it made Laurent exhale very slowly, unknotting something at the base of his spine. He smiled, and when Damen traced the curve of his lips with two fingers, he dropped his mouth open and licked them in, sucking to feel the pressure of them between the flat of his tongue and the roof of his mouth. 

Damen groaned, and dragged Laurent closer. They didn’t plan any longer, that night.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The whole court had accompanied the Kings and their chosen delegation to the floor just above the ballroom. As it would have been with the Consummation, they would then be free to continue the festivities until the break of dawn. For as much drink and food had already been consumed, the kitchen staff had been doubled for the night and would provide abundantly. 

When the door closed behind them, Laurent could still hear the excited chattering from the outside. In comparison, the roughly thirty people that had convened with them appeared almost silent, before Laurent’s hearing readjusted at the lack of noise and could properly appreciate the humming. 

As everyone took their assigned seats in the two semicircles of couches and armchairs that dominated the sides, it became evident that Ancel had made an excellent work in redesigning one of the several reading rooms of the Palace just for this occasion. The light came mostly from the corners, with only two candle holders dropping inconspicuously in the centre. The room was square but it appeared round, cut by the shadows. There was no change in height, no similarity to a Pet ring, and if Laurent had entered this in another occasion he would have thought he had forgotten about a birthday party of one of his high lords. 

He inhaled, and for a second it was the smell that distracted him, a wave of familiarity impossible to place until he caught glimpse of the flower that clung at every table with delicacies and drinks, at every wooden corner of furniture, and even at the ceiling. The memory slotted in place slowly, blurry and undetailed, but he remembered jumping through a room he couldn’t place anymore, checking very much the same flowers, while Auguste gave the last directives to the servants. 

It was Ancel, now, that surveyed that everyone had found their place, without subverting an order that had everything to do with the hierarchy of the court and the good graces of the Kings. His red hair contrasted perfectly with the deep green of his clothes, loose enough to look exotic, decorated enough in jewellery to mark his ties to Vere. When he caught Laurent looking, he bowed perfectly, but raised with a small smile. 

“Is everything to your liking, Your Majesty?”

Laurent inhaled again but took his time to survey the room once more. “I didn’t expect the flowers,” he admitted, at the end.

There was something deeply satisfied in Ancel’s expression, that spoke of the type of painstaking planning that Laurent, among everyone, could appreciate. “Paschal provided some very useful suggestions about the last Récurrence of the Royal Family.”

Following the tilt of Ancel’s head, Laurent caught the side of their Royal Healer, sitting in a corner of the first row to the left, in perfect festive clothes. He smiled and bowed his head at Laurent, and Laurent smiled back, just a hint. 

It had been a good Feast. The room was perfect. This must be a good start.

He waved Ancel off with a more explicit sign of approval, and turned back towards the centre of the room. A different carpet marked the area, a deep blue fabric devoid of any crease, the head of a lion roaring under a starburst to mark Laurent and Damen’s Kingdoms. Above it, the old fixture of a chandelier had been repurposed and long strips of velvet, shimmering under the candlelight. 

Jord waited for him there, his forearms crossed behind his back, chin up in a rest too serious and composed to be proper for the festive occasion. 

The only people still standing were the ones Laurent had chosen to join him in that night. 

Vannes, Berenger and Estienne clustered at Damen’s left, every inch the Veretian courtiers in embroidered clothes almost too heavy for the weather; even Berenger, usually reticent to wealthy displays, must have been dragged by Ancel into making a statement. 

At Damen’s right, Nikandros and Pallas stood with a slight stiffness; it would be inappropriate to consider them out of place in a Veretian court — as their position in Akielos was too high for them not to be invited for the major state matters. Admittedly, however, this was the first celebration fully in Veretian tastes they had been involved so directly. Under everyone’s attention, even they were dressed in Veretian fashion. The single person that was allowed to broadcast his status, foreign but unparalleled, was Damianos — the royal red and gold of Akielos fell in a stole off his broad shoulders, a long white peplum reached his ankles — regal as an Artesian statue. 

Their eyes met and Laurent fell suddenly aware of the conversations around him, for the way it devolved into a distant hum against the sight of Damen. 

It was a second, and gone immediately after. 

Laurent nodded subtly and took a step forward, directly towards the centre of the room, where the General of the Arles troops waited for him. 

“Your Majesty,” Jord bowed deeply, with more than protocol.

“Thank you for your service tonight, Jord,” Laurent said, simply. 

Then he tilted his head upwards and let Jord work on the crossed fastenings of his jacket, unlacing it all the way down his trousers. 

Jord was delicate and efficient, and Laurent focused on the familiar sight of him while he offered him one hand, and then the other, to loosen the clasps at the wrists. The gold cuff shined on the right one, grounding, and the delicateness of Jord's touch was another indication that Laurent had chosen well. Not that he needed any, for how much easier it was to look at Jord and know every ounce of his expression than it would have been with another courtier, after more than ten years. This was an honour, and Laurent had granted it wholeheartedly.

Laurent’s jacket was handed over to Vannes’s pet, readily at Jord’s side and then gone in a second. Jord knelt at Laurent’s feet with the same composure he had during the pledges of loyalty after the Ascension. This time, however, he reached for Laurent’s boots to tug them off. 

Laurent would not lower his head to look at him, now, so he was left to a room that was watching him, with little choice but to stare back. He didn’t really turn around, merely glanced lazily, because he was their King and this was the most intimate section of his Court. He caught glimpse of excitement, the broad figure of Makedon among ladies that were more than a head shorter, an abundantly filled glass in his hand clinking with Lazar’s, possibly. 

Laurent put his bare foot down on the fabric and shifted his weight to the left side. 

Most of his Council was on the other side, including Lady Maud, wife of Councillor Thomas — destituted during his Uncle’s regency, reinstated by Laurent. She had told him, earlier, how much King Aleron would have approved of him, of his evening, even how much she could see the resemblance. Laurent had never been told anything of the sort before, and now he let his mind wander along with his gaze, under the concept of him picking up his Father’s legacy when it had always been Auguste’s. 

He blinked against the candlelight, and put his left foot down as well. 

Jord rose again, standing in front of Laurent after disposing of the boots. There was something stiff in the line of his shoulders, but Laurent kept his chin up and thought dispassionately about his own breathing. Undoing his trousers was much easier than his jacket had been, but Laurent appreciated the subtlety with which Jord’s fingers hooked in the hem and made sure to catch his undergarments as well, before dragging everything down. Laurent cooperated in stepping out of them, steady and composed in his stance. 

There was a low murmur from the Court, there and gone like a sigh. Laurent ignored it and offered his hands again to Jord, for him to loosen the fastenings of his shirt — first at his wrists, then around his neck. This was quick and easy, something that Laurent could have done for himself if he weren’t King — but he was, even in just a shirt and the golden circlet around his head, so he should never have to fend for himself.

Out of the trousers and with the jacket on, the shirt was threaded in fine Kemptian silk and embroidered with the same creamy colour of its fabric. Charls had been most excited by this last commission — even more so by the thought of it being used during a Récurrence — and had paid no mind to the short notice. The merchant wasn’t there to see it, but Laurent was sure he was making the most of his evening downstairs. Here, his cloth was everything Laurent had left on himself, falling down his shoulders all the way to the top of his thighs. 

Having worn chitons, this wasn’t much more revealing — not considering it even had sleeves. And yet it was, because this was the Veretian court and a King rarely showed this much skin — especially a King like Laurent.

He glanced upwards, where drapes of fabric hung and twisted from the ceiling. Locating the two loops was straightforward, but Laurent stared at them for one breath too much, stalling for time. Then he raised his arms and slid his hands through the circles, his sleeves trailing downwards towards his elbows. 

Jord was beside him in a second, tightening the loops around Laurent’s wrists — just grazing the golden cuff, on the right. Laurent stretched his fingers, and then pulled slightly. Nothing gave in and he felt the grip without fearing the pressure on his veins. He nodded at Jord, stiffly waiting for his approval, and only heard him sigh because they were so close. 

Laurent looked away from Jord, eyes forward, leaving him free to pick up more strands and tie them around Laurent’s forearms, all the way to his elbows, free from his King’s judging stare.

In front of him, set as a spacer between the two semicircles of seats, there was a large mirror, covering almost the full span of the wall and making the room bigger, centred around Laurent himself. It had evidently been polished to perfection, but some corners were dotted in black in a way that betrayed its age. 

Maybe his father had been reflected on it, once, in his same predicament, just like Lady Maud had said. Father would have harboured no hesitations, Laurent was sure.

The figure that stared back at him from the silver-coated surface was white and gold all over, but there was deep blue carpet underneath him and velvety vines trapping his arms from the top. Jord tied the last strap just in the middle of Laurent’s bicep, sure and practised just as the common soldier he had once been. Laurent let his weight sag against the restraints, and the pull of it was steady, tingling all the way through Laurent’s shoulders and down his spine, but not uncomfortable. His reflected figure canted as well, like a banner in the wind. 

At the corner of the mirror, Damen was as regal as the inlaid frame, serious and steady, with a crown of gold laurel leaves resting against his dark curls. He would come forward, in just a bit. Laurent wouldn’t be able to see him. The five people beside him would approach, too, and that mattered and at the same time _didn’t_. 

His reflection looked very young, half-naked and boneless in his restraints. 

Somewhere in the room a couple of harps were being tuned, but they were outside the view that Laurent could catch in the mirror and he didn’t want to turn away — lest the young bound man fell apart in the span of his fleeting distraction.

Half a life away, as a boy, Laurent had spent hours in front of the mirror in his room — not out of vanity, but to school his expression. He had mulled over nefarious scenarios, joyful events or dull circumstances, picturing them all so clearly in his mind that he could almost taste them, only to make sure that every telling sign would be smoothed and filtered away. The young man in the mirror swallowed, just a bit, and Laurent had the impression of wide eyes, even though the general composure. That would not do, of course.

He was nervous. 

It was unbecoming.

Jord left his side and joined Ancel. Laurent knew what was coming.

There was no need to be nervous. It would be quick, and among people vetted many times over, in more perilous situations, through the early years of his Kingdom. He would be in the hands of people he had trusted with his life when failure had been close enough to breathe on their necks. In context, everything was easy, even though it meant Laurent couldn’t plan for it more than he already had, and having to let go and follow the flow always filled him with a redundant type of desperation. 

There was no need to be nervous. Damen had said he would handle it, like an unmovable rock for the sea of Laurent’s turmoils to crash and shatter. Even now Damen’s presence was soothing him, and Laurent felt incoherent like a child yearning for the healing kiss of his mother on a scratch. Only two things remained up to him: keeping his resolve, and recognising Damianos above everyone and everything else. 

There was no need to be nervous. This was just one of the many games of the court, and the delicate balances of it had already been fulfilled smoothly by the time the selection had been completed and the Inner Court had sat down in this room. Provided that no one had a stroke, they would all be out and the evening will be remembered as a success. But Laurent had never played a game he didn’t want to win. There were five people he could freely misname, but no weight would be given to that. Only Damen — only his husband — should remain unchallenged in Laurent’s discernment. The thought of failing in this — of being _expected_ to fail at this, to some degree — was unspeakably embarrassing. 

He raised the challenge to his reflection, straightening to his full height once again, straining against the velvet ties to help him to control his breathing. 

Laurent could do this, and he would. 

There was no need to be nervous. And yet _he was_.

Jord came back to his side with a last piece of cloth between his outstretched hands. It looked like an offering that Laurent could never accept, bound as he was. He blinked his assent — unflinching, unaffected — and Jord reached forward, circling Laurent’s head in fabric. It spanned from the tip of his nose to the middle of his forehead, deep blue and thick. Jord tied it up firmly just above Laurent’s nape and the room fell in complete darkness. 

Deprived of his sight, Laurent was suddenly aware of the murmurs of the bystanders, interspersed with the tinkling of glasses, and plucking of harp strings. Something sunk in his stomach, a viscous feeling of disorientation. _This was it_. 

The music was taking shape, a subdued background for Laurent to follow now that he didn’t have anything else. The felt the rhythm of it against his sternum, somehow heightened by the attempt to time his breathing against it. There was a horrible moment, and then it got better, the tension suffusing to the tip of his fingers. He had been too warm for most of the evening — as he usually was in summer, too dressed for the weather — and now his feet were almost cold. 

Two minutes passed, maybe almost three. 

Then, in the distance, the bells of Arles chimed up, marking the eleventh hour of Laurent and Damen’s fifth anniversary, one ring at the time. 

The last sound had just faded when a hand brushed over the side of Laurent’s face. Laurent had been too engrossed in following the echoes of the bell — he hadn’t felt them approaching, he couldn’t picture where they were. He almost startled, but a mouth pressed against his lips swiftly, before Laurent could gape. 

The kiss was as steady as the touch on his face, lips pressing upwards against his own. Following the prompt, Laurent opened up, and a tongue slide in, deepening the contact. It was slow and sensual, and somehow tinged with the smell of smokey woods, and something more subtle that went straight to Laurent’s head. For a fleeting second, he was back at the crazy campaign for his throne, among the mountains, in Vaskian camps pulsing with drums instead of harps. 

Laurent breathed in through his nose, and kissed back. 

When the touch retreated, his lips were wet and he didn’t feel like shaking anymore.

“Vannes,” he said, still tasting the hakesh. 

Another small kiss landed on his lips. “Correct, my King.”

A whisper and then gone, and Laurent was left hanging, anticipation running through his veins.

There was a brush against his hair, nosing along the line of the blindfold. Laurent could feel the heat of the body leaning close against his shoulder blades, and the touch came from the top. There were only two people so tall to do it, and the contact was contained, just inhaling through his hair.

“Nikandros.”

Two kisses his head, one on the top, the other on the short hair brushing his nape, and then the touch retreated. 

On the other side, two hands slotted up his side, creasing up the soft fabric of Laurent’s shirt, in a perfect slot from his hips to his waist. Laurent’s breath blossomed in his ribs.

“Damianos.”

Laurent smiled and the court picked up with an excited murmur, gleeful. He got it right, the auspiciousness of it was marked by a thrilling harping. In the darkness, Laurent was still disoriented but Damen was still touching his side, brushing his cheek against Laurent’s raised arm, and it didn’t feel as overwhelming as it did at the start, anymore. He inhaled, and exhaled, and when the touch came against his shin, discreet as if someone was kneeling beside him, he didn’t jump. 

“Pallas…?” He had to try very hard, to not sound interrogative about it. 

There was no way to discern right from wrong, he got distracted by Damen leaving his side and two fingers coming up to loosen the strings of the shirt at his chest further. A brush of knuckles ran over his collarbones, sliding down his navel with the flat of palm. A left hand, parting his shirt to the side.

A flash in Laurent’s mind — so busy trying to keep up with all the stimuli — provided him the only left-handed person he knew among those six. “Estienne.”

“Very clever,” a whispered reply came back, from his councillor facing him, dissipating the doubt. 

Laurent wanted to grin against the intrinsic comfort of getting the hang of this game but a head came close to his own, with the slow drag of a tongue against the shell of his ear, just while Estienne stroked his hand to the side, brushing against Laurent’s nipple. A wave of sensitivity rushed through him. He almost forgot that he was supposed to speak, but the brush of the faintest of stubbles — inevitable after a day of festivities — reminded him.

“Berenger.”

The tongue draw away with a small fickle against his lobe, it felt like a reward but it was difficult to appreciate a successful first round with everything was devolving so fast. Murmurs in the background, coming from two sides, and the music adding on it made the room feel like spinning, on the other side of the imposed darkness. Laurent was trying to stand steady but the concept in itself was becoming slippery. Estienne held Laurent’s right nipple between two knuckles and rubbed against it with the pad of his thumb. Laurent wanted to squirm but he ended up just sagging against the restraints, tilting to the side. 

The movement made him go forward whoever was reaching to span the length of his back, creasing the silk of his shirt upwards. 

“Pallas,” he gasped, distractedly. 

The touch retreated as if it had never been there, and Estienne, too, let go of his nipple and slide away from his chest, leaving him aching asymmetrically. Laurent had gotten it wrong.

A hand planted between Laurent’s shoulder blades and began gathering the fabric from there again. The movement landed nicely exactly where Laurent was the most tense for having his arms raised, the span of the fingers was broad, efficient, leaving the shirt hanging halfway up.

“Nikandr-ros” The Akielon name twisted in his mouth as another hand traced his spine, vertebra, after vertebra, almost ticklish. “Vannes.”

He flinched, when someone grasped squarely on his ass, holding the grip steady even while Laurent’s muscles clenched. When he murmured, “Berenger,” the touch retreated. A couple of seconds, the air moving around, and a hand stroked around the other cheek, from the top of Laurent’s thighs upwards. “Berenger,” he tried again, sensing the hang of the game, and the caress repeated downwards, spreading him. It made Laurent shiver.

The tip of a nose brushed suddenly against his navel, kissing between the loosened lacings, and there was something slightly taunting about it, a challenge for Laurent to get it right, now.

“Estienne.”

Above the fabric of the shirt, three fingers skittered along the nipple that Estienne had previously neglected, waiting for it to react to the attention before pinching it. Laurent canted into the touch, reflexively. It could be Estienne, but something in the angle and the increased pressure on his shoulder blades, keeping him still, told him otherwise.

“Nikandros.”

A low huff came from beside him. The rubbing went on, leisurely, and Estienne dragged his face along Laurent’s chest, matching the challenge with a swirl of his tongue, right where Laurent was still stiff from before. Laurent wanted to squirm but couldn’t. He pressed between too many bodies, with Vannes stroking and scratching his back until he got goosebumps and Berenger going in slow circles around the crack of his ass.

He swallowed, quivering against the aftertaste of hakesh. In the darkness, everything was spinning, in reactions of too many push and pulls of his attention. It didn’t matter how subdued the whole environment was, if Laurent struggled and failed to hold the utmost concentration. The hem of his shirt brushed against the tip of his cock, tantalising rather than really covering the stiffness of it, how eager his restricted circle was making him. 

A pair of lips touched his neck, exactly where his blood was soaring. 

“Damianos,” Laurent whispered, urgent, before the contact even landed in full. He turned his head, blindly, chasing that presence among all the others. “Damen…”

Damen kissed him, fiercely, on the mouth, until the rhythm of Laurent’s heaving breaths matched the twining of their tongues. 

There was a buzzing murmur from the Court, another trilling of harps. A pair of lips sucked at the soft spot at the dip of his hip bone, and Laurent keened, just a bit, right in Damen’s mouth. Distracted as he was, Laurent missed the beat to call a name, and the touch was gone. Then, Damen retreated too, and everyone reshuffled around him, stroking along Laurent’s body. 

After that, everything spiralled, and trying to pay attention, to play this like a cerebral game, was like trying to hold the flow of a river with a broken vase.

Touches showered him — lips, tongues, hands, fingers, warm breaths and reassuring whispers — and Laurent swayed on his feet, chasing them and shying from them, ultimately going nowhere. They worked him with perfect consensus, as though they all shared steps of a dance that no one had thought Laurent, leaving him to stumble in its wake.

A hand rubbed along the crack of his ass, sliding sideways over and over, from the dip at the bottom of his spine down to the spot behind Laurent’s sac that made him jump when fingers tapped on it. His nipples ached from the attention, and longed for it when it withdrew. There were kisses along his body, from the back of his knees to the inside of his thighs, trailing up his abdominal muscles — sometimes on his mouth, as well, fleeting but intense. 

Laurent tried to name them, stumbling through his scattered awareness. Sometimes he would fail, or forget, and the touch would disappear, or reappear from another generous giver, continuing where Laurent had been left off.

His shirt kept riling up and falling back down and there was something fundamentally indecent by being at full disposal, but not in full display. Laurent sagged against his restraints at times, dragged himself upwards with a grasp of his hands on velvet at others. He had learned to handle intimacy with Damen, or so he had thought, but this was somewhat different — less and somehow more, too much to keep track.

There were two fingers hooked between his legs, pressed on that spot that Laurent could feel all the way across his cock. The same hand — Vannes, maybe, it was difficult to keep track — tapped maddeningly on his hole. He tilted his head at the slow drag of a tongue against the tendon of his neck, making his breath hitch, and then choked when a very deliberate brush swept across the tip of his hardness. When he rocked against it, the touch went to circle around, pulling his sensitive foreskin further back. Laurent’s knees buckled at the familiarity of it.

“Damen...Damen…” 

His voice cracked over it and Laurent couldn’t bring himself to care. He dug his nails in the velvet of his restraints, strangling it in the grip of his fingers, and came just as Damen’s touch was retreating it. It was sudden and intense like a bowstring snapping, and no one stopped on his account, as if Laurent’s pleasure was inconsequential to the game. 

The veins in his temples throbbed against the pressure of the blindfold and his world wound tighter and tighter on itself. His own breath echoed louder than the rest of the room that he knew was still present, and he was fine-tuned to the brush of clothes of all the people around him. It was like a bubble, enclosing him in bodies, keeping him safe — and very intensely cared for.

Someone kissed him on the mouth again — Nikandros, he assumed, and the kiss went on so he must have been right. Laurent let his hands go from the grip on the fabric, diving again in this pool of sensations that surrounded him. A hand stroked along his leg, guiding him to spread wider — he gambled for Berenger, and lost, the caresses retreating. He hadn’t noticed that the touches on his ass had retreated. When the first kiss came, at the top of his thigh, and then slid upwards, he noticed quite all right.

He shut his eyes, pointlessly, at the first swipe of tongue across his hole. He tried to name it, and failed, but another came right after. Then another, then another. It didn’t matter, at some point, if he was right or wrong. Apparently he would get it, and get it, while other hands kept him spread, his skin well stroked, nipples pinched, his neck and shoulders kissed all over.

Letting go happened somewhere down the line, and the restraints kept him up even while he squirmed pointlessly on his naked feet. He murmured names and arched against the tongues lapping at him, thrusting inside. 

“Damen…”

Even now, there was a thread guiding him home, to remind him which touch was the one that he had chosen for himself, all these years ago. There was something proprietary and reassuring in the steadiness with which Damen touched him — the inherent knowledge of how to make Laurent respond, bit after bit, how to care for urges that Laurent wouldn’t even know how to name. The certainty of it made the last hesitancy knotting Laurent’s mind unravel into nothingness. 

He shivered in pleasure, keening softly and clenching against the licking he was receiving. No one would go much further than this, and rationally he knew it, but he felt primed for it — to be given everything he could possibly take.

Greed filled his lungs, shaking through his limbs and entrusting his weight more fully to the bodies pressing against his. He shifted his weight to the left, then the right. Got another name wrong and hummed in frustration when it meant giving up his tonguing and waiting for someone else to take over.

In the end, his orgasm rocked through him like an afterthought. Phantom stars shone against the darkness of his blindfold and Laurent’s eyes chased them, crossing slightly. His thoughts wandered disoriented, disembodied, until the arching of his own spine dragged him back in the present — where his cock jerked against the fabric of his shirt and white-hot relief surged through his convulsing muscles like a wave. The tongue slid out of him and he was left wheezing, wavering on unsteady feet.

The touches stayed. It went without saying, and Laurent’s mind didn’t rebel against the concept. 

Somewhere, in the distance, a bell chimed, repetitive, and then stopped. 

Twelve rings, a drowsy part of his mind provided, but Laurent hadn’t counted.

All touches dropped. It felt abrupt and it left him shiver, even though a second ago he had been overheated and sweaty. He shuffled on his feet, ears full of cheerful music that winded up from somewhere not so distant. 

The change of rhythm was such that Laurent’s mind simply refused to keep up. He was wholly unprepared for the restraints to give up their grip and slide off his arm, but whoever did it kept his arms up afterwards and Laurent didn’t stumble too brutally. 

When two hands came to caress the side of his head, reaching for the blindfold, he identified them automatically. 

“Damen,” Laurent said, and when the fabric dropped from his eyes the light was too bright but Damen was there, tall and handsome and — somehow — Laurent’s to call his own. “Damen,” he said again, reaching forward, just because he could.

Damen shouldered Laurent’s weight as if it was nothing. There were cheers, in the distance, tinkling of glasses, some words called forward with good humour that Laurent couldn’t exactly pinpoint. His head felt fuzzy.

“That’s it, we’re done, come on,” Damen murmured.

Damen bent down swiftly, without sliding out of the loop of Laurent’s arms around his neck, and grabbed Laurent around his naked knees, hoisting him up. Half-flung over Damen’s shoulders, Laurent let himself sag down, no questions asked, holding up tight when Damen started walking them off. Damen would handle it, just as he promised.

There were whistles, even applause, some laughter. Someone shouted a sentence, and a second later it got echoed by multiple voices — _Long live the Kings, long live the Kings_ — as Damen found their way through the corridors. 

Laurent closed his eyes.

  
  


* * *

* * *

  
  


The route to the Royal chambers was not as quick as Damen would have hoped, which was to say that it took more than two minutes to put doors between the two of them and the rest of the world. 

Over Damen’s right shoulder, Laurent was a solid but asymmetric weight, helpfully clinging at Damen’s back to avoid getting displaced by his resolute strides through hallways and staircases. The royal garments were more invasive than a normal chiton would have been — lingering around Damen’s ankles instead of leaving him with full freedom of movement — but Damen was glad for the additional fabric when he could swipe the red drape away from his arm and squarely over Laurent. 

Though most of the courtiers were still gathered in the main hall and the attached gardens for the feast, they still crossed some groups — Veretians, Akielon, at times mixed. There was laughter, even trough the bows that Akielon people wouldn’t forgo for their Exalted, and toasts to their good health interspersed with good-hearted bantering. Some impressed looks, too, from the people that caught Damen climbing the stairs with his husband carried like a spoil of war. It was difficult to be cross with any of them, even though they got to witness a dishevelled Laurent, half-wrapped in Akielon red, half-naked for the rest.

“This is _so_ undignified,” Laurent said from behind Damen’s back, in a failed attempt to sound reproachful. 

“My apologies, I didn’t think you did dignified,” Damen countered, grasping at Laurent’s body more firmly. 

Laurent laughed, open and unabashed, and kept his fingers digging at the fabric at Damen’s back. 

It was difficult not to worry about the tinge of hysterics that could, or could not, be hiding in the giggling. There was no way to discern it without looking at Laurent’s face, so Damen just huffed under his breath and kept going.

“At rest,” Damen waved off the efforts of the guards at their doors, scrambling in attention after having been caught by surprise by the return of the Kings way before dawn. He tilted his head in silent recognition of their opening the doors for their entrance. A couple of glances were exchanged, but since Damen didn’t provide any additional orders they deemed wise — quite correctly — as to avoid inquiring about King Laurent.

With the doors closed behind them, Damen had a distinct sense of quiet, even though the hallway hadn’t been loud, and intimacy, even though the Royal apartments were too ample to be cosy. He kept Laurent over his shoulder for a bit longer, walking his way towards the night rooms. 

There was barely any light, as the servants had been dismissed earlier in the evening to enjoy the festivities, but the path was familiar, lit by occasional candles, and Damen walked it with ease. A bath would be ideal, but they would have to make do without. Pressed against him, Laurent’s ribs expanded with a sigh, but for all his calling this _undignified_ he wasn’t asking Damen to put him down.

That, in itself, could be a sign of several issues.

He stroked Laurent’s back, over the thick fabric of his drape, and lessened his grip to let him slide down, close to the bed. To Damen’s surprise, Laurent let himself straighten in his arms, but clung to his shoulders persistently, looping one leg around him. Damen held him up by reflex, the naked skin of Laurent’s thighs smooth under his touch while the red fabric fell to the floor. 

“Feeling affectionate?” Damen mused, not without kindness.

Laurent’s eyes were heavy with the sort of tiredness that came with the sudden drop of tension after days of planning and careful chiselling of the execution. There was a persistent flush over his cheekbones, though, and while Damen scrutinised his expression he realised that Laurent was doing the same. 

“Did I get you wrong?” Laurent whispered, close to Damen’s face and with a slight furrow of seriousness along his forehead. He pressed on before Damen could even attempt to reply, just to drive the point all the way across. “Did I mistake you for someone else?”

There was a subtle twinge of annoyance, down Damen’s spine, the one he often got, even with all these years of habit, when Laurent got them so twisted in some senseless game that the purpose itself was likely to get lost. Yet he could see the nerves, as he had seen them when Laurent had walked up to Jord, and he could feel the full weight of him in Damen’s arms. It was difficult to just make it into an argument.

“Never. You always, pedantically, got me right. I’m afraid the court is senseless with it and you will have to hear several ballads at the next festivity we sponsor.” 

Laurent sagged in the loop of Damen’s arms, in yet another display of total trust akin to putting Damen in charge of directing the Récurrence. A small smile tilted Laurent’s lips and Damen wasn’t honestly sure if it was for him or for the plotting.

“Drop the grinning,” Damen rumbled, and surged forward to kiss it away from Laurent’s face for good measure. 

Laurent sighed, opening his mouth all too eagerly for Damen to kiss him with even more urgency than he would after a long trip. It was maddening, to think about how many people had kissed him tonight — to know it, precisely, in names and numbers and ways. To have witnessed it, up close.

He rocked Laurent in his arms to lift him at a better kissing angle, and the responding shiver came like a wave against Damen’s body. Would Laurent look different, now that he could do more than take what was given to him and try to keep track? It was too dark to see, even with eyes half-opened, and Damen could do little more than mull over the concept and kiss Laurent in all the ways Damen knew he liked best. 

The surge of success when Laurent had to surrender was undeniable, and Damen smiled into the kiss as Laurent shifted his face away first — moaning against the lack of breath. Brushing their noses together, Damen tilted his head upwards ready to try to claim even more, and bit along Laurent’s lower lip. 

In the silence of the room, the clattering of Damen’s belt to the floor was startling. 

He withdrew, but there was very little room for movement with Laurent bodily hoisted up like this. Laurent’s left hand was on Damen’s hips. With their foreheads almost touching Damen was barely aware of a movement. A little dip in Laurent’s laboured breath, and the pin on his shoulder was snatched, unravelling all the wrappings of the long chiton. 

Dragged by the weight of the abundant fabric, the whole cloth fell to the floor beside the red drape that Laurent had shuffled off. The only strands that remained up were the ones pressed between their bodies. 

An undertone of expectation wavered through Laurent’s breathing, so close to Damen’s face. A sudden awareness came upon Damen’s mind — on Laurent’s long naked thighs, his fair skin and elegant body not really concealed by the thin fabric of the shirt. He was dishevelled, sporting the ghosts of all too many touches and the traces of his own reflexive pleasure. 

Damen stared and dug his fingers in Laurent’s flesh, and an insidious fire ignited in his guts.

Laurent kissed him softly, almost timidly, on the mouth, after too many seconds of relative stillness. 

Damen grabbed his hips with more purpose and tossed Laurent bodily on the bed.

Against the dark quilt, Laurent was an impression of white and gold, surreal in the hazy light of the moon pooling over from the tall windows. Laurent propped up one elbow, staring at Damen intensely, and tossed away the pin that he had snatched in a gesture that felt like the echo of their shared past.

Uncaring of his own nakedness, Damen stepped out of the bundle of fabric and put one knee up the mattress, crowding Laurent. Laurent’s stare followed him through and the heated itching of his breath was unmistakable, while he lay down where Damen had put him, legs half spread.

“Haven’t you had enough?” Damen whispered.

Laurent’s swallowed, wide-eyed against the moonlight. “No.”

Groaning between clenched teeth, Damen grasped at the bent of Laurent’s knees and dragged him forward, bodily, until their thighs were touching and Damen could tower over him. 

“It’s good that you were blindfolded,” Damen said, low, with a pang of annoyance that remained weirdly persistent. “I would have had to stop everyone from fucking you, if they had seen you, eager like this…”

Laurent did look eager, flat on his back, staring up at Damen with a deepening flush. His blond hair curled messily around his head, across his forehead. The golden circle of his crown had slid away when Damen had dragged him and lay abandoned further up on the bed.

“You would have?” Laurent exhaled, entranced in the scenario that Damen was proposing.

“Each and every one of them,” Damen pointed out.

“Will you fuck me, now?” Laurent pressed on, murmured like a secret. 

Laurent’s legs trembled in anticipation, spread beside Damen’s body where Damen had positioned him. Damen groaned and tightened his grip, just to mark a point, before pushing Laurent’s thighs up and over. Laurent was bent in a tantalising curve with his knees hooked on Damen’s shoulders, exposed in his eagerness. 

It was different from that same morning — when Damen had woken up to Laurent fingering himself and swiftly demanding that Damen join in the efforts. Laurent had ridden him on this same bed, with abandon, until Damen had fucked the anxiety out of him.

Now Laurent’s expectation had a calmer quality, on the other side of everything he had built, and Damen’s mind kept falling back to the image of Laurent — always so unbelievably attractive when bound — and all the hands and mouths that had touched him while restrained. 

He dragged Laurent’s hips even closer, sliding him up until Laurent’s lower back was on his thighs and Damen’s cock pressed squarely where so many people had just licked, one over the other, with their inner court to witness. 

“You even recognised my tongue,” Damen said, holding Laurent steady. 

His cock got even harder against Laurent’s rim just by hearing himself say it, knowing it was true — Laurent had hiccupped a _Damen_ from his very first brush of tongue. Somehow, that had counterbalanced the public setting — and the hands of others on his husband — for the part of Damen’s brain that lived ablaze in lust.

Maybe Laurent was burning of the same fire, and that was what made him so silent. He still made a small sound, choked and overwhelmed by the pace Damen was imposing. With both arms abandoned at the side of his head, Laurent nodded emphatically, as if that said everything. 

With one last tug on Laurent’s hips, Damen pushed inside him and rocked them together, relentlessly, until there was no more cock for Laurent to take. And yet Laurent squirmed on Damen’s lap, tossing his head back against the duvet, greedy for more. 

Gritting his teeth, Damen leveraged on his firm grip on Laurent’s legs, and gave himself over to the sensation burning along his chest. 

He thrust into Laurent again and again, until Laurent’s mouth dropped open, soundlessly, and the clench of his body relaxed enough for Damen to fuck him like he meant to.

The quilt creased around them with the strength of their fucking, deep and relentless, until Damen could feel every shiver running through Laurent’s body directly against his own skin. He turned his head on a whim, and closed his teeth on the soft spot where Laurent’s thigh bent at the knee, still safely hoisted on Damen’s shoulders. Laurent’s leg twitched erratically in response and Damen just held him through it, driving Laurent right back on his cock.

Damen didn’t need to look at him., The low litany of hitched breaths was like a thread connecting them, rasping _mh, nh, oh_ , winding up while Laurent took it, and took it. All these sounds were Damen's by right. At best, everyone else could only hope to snatch them, fleetingly. Leaning a cheek against Laurent’s knee, Damen went back to watching him. 

Laurent’s eyes had never left him. Damen found him staring with a liquid expression, almost dazed and yet incredibly intent in his study of Damen’s body. Laurent’s lips quivered in pleasure when their eyes met. 

He was so responsive. Damen wanted to be the only one who could handle him. 

The thought lodged somewhere deep in his stomach, mingling with the pleasure in a wild rush of possessiveness. 

Damen ran both hands along Laurent’s thigh, over and over, in pace with his thrusts as he rocked inside Laurent. The caresses smoothened the shivers and left goosebumps in their place, and Damen followed those too, trailing down to grasp at Laurent’s hips and sink down all the way inside him once again. When Damen pressed his thumbs on the skin there Laurent clenched around him with a small gurgling sound, and Damen was sure he would have squirmed if Damen had let him. Instead, he kept him still and Laurent could only take it t. Then Damen changed pace again, just so Laurent could feel it better.

He stared down at Laurent’s body and he found him hard enough to be glistening wet at the tip, the long shirt creased all the way up his waist. 

Raising on his knees for more leverage, Damen slid the shirt up even higher, all the way to Laurent’s collarbone, until it could not go any further. Laurent’s abdominal muscles jumped under his touch, breaking up the erratic pants of his breath. 

In the dark hue of the room, Damen could only image how flushed Laurent’s pale skin must be, shaping the picture in his mind from years of experience. Maybe it was for the best that he couldn’t see. All the touches Laurent had felt had been delicate, but what if Laurent’s skin now sported the signs of other people’s mouths, of their fingers? 

He ran his whole palm over Laurent’s chest, drumming with his heartbeat and rising with his laboured breath. Laurent hummed, and then the sound railed up higher when Damen brushed against his nipples in a broad stroke. They were hard and sensitive, and it hadn’t been Damen who’d touched him there, tonight. Still, it was Damen’s hand on him now, spanning over Laurent’s ribs and rubbing at the hardened tip of his nipple with just one thumb. 

He kept at it until Laurent sagged into the bed, hips jutting up of their own volition to meet Damen’s cock. Damen fucked him harder, and Laurent’s cock jumped where it dripped against his stomach.

“Damen, _Damen_ …”

Laurent called his name with reckless abandon, and a clue of desperation as if split between begging for more, and surrendering to whatever Damen would give him. 

Damen kept rolling Laurent’s nipple between thumb and finger until Laurent’s voice cracked and he squirmed in a wave, wiggling away from the touch and tossing his head to the side. He hid his face the bent of one arm, clenching at the bedcover and the other hand reached blindly for Damen.

A sweatdrop trailed down from Damen’s temple to his neck. He wanted to keep going forever, until no teasing from the courtiers would ever amount to what Damen could do to Laurent, but he _couldn’t wait_. Yet he gritted his teeth again and put even more weight onto Laurent’s body, making his thrusts deeper, and angling Laurent to take them better. The push of his thrusts made Laurent’s knees drop slightly from Damen’s shoulders, but it didn’t matter. Damen held Laurent exactly where he wanted him, with Laurent’s head tossing back with a flutter of eyelids.

“Come on, love,” Damen growled, reaching over to press Laurent’s arm against the bed and keep him from sliding away as Damen fucked him, and fucked him.

“Yes… _Ah_!...yes…”

Laurent moaned as if Damen was forcing him to. He shuddered around Damen's cock pleasure ricocheting through him in waves. 

With Laurent’s hole clenching around him like a vice it was impossible to not follow suit, and Damen wanted nothing more than let go, and snap the rest of this evening away. He fucked Laurent through his orgasm, and shook with the effort and for his own release, moaning with every breath. He could feel an echo of Laurent’s breath, timed with his own, winding down from impossible heights, and it was good, it was perfect, because even with his vision out of focus Damen still wanted to feel him.

They were oddly still, after, just like calm had ensued in the room at the twelfth belt of midnight. 

Then, gingerly, Damen let go of his hold, and Laurent slid away from his cock and back on the mattress. They both moaned at the loss. 

After being so close and yet so far from Laurent for what had felt like hours, Damen couldn’t bear to let him go. He sunk down half on top of Laurent, with one elbow planted beside Laurent’s face and his face hiding in the crook of Laurent’s neck. Blood drummed in his veins and heavy breaths washed over them like an indiscernible tide. Damen closed his eyes against it, until it became impossible to distinguish between Laurent’s sounds and his own. 

Then Laurent shuffled his head to the side and pressed his cheek against Damen’s curls, in a spontaneous gesture, natural and mindless. 

Their lips met and they kissed messily, over and over again, until their hearts calmed down and they had no more air to keep them going. 

Very slowly, Laurent squirmed on his side and slotted their bodies together so that they could fit snugly against each other. Damen was fairly sure they both spaced in and out of slumber for a bit, lying easily with his arms wrapped around Laurent, but he kept trailing one hand along Laurent’s spine and Laurent kept mouthing distractedly at Damen’s collarbones. 

“Are we done, now?” Damen murmured, at some indistinct point. “No more frigid King, disdainful of his own country’s traditions?” 

Laurent hummed, in a sort of assent. “It wasn’t so bad, was it?” 

Damen kissed Laurent’s hair, softly. “You tell me.”

“It wasn’t,” deliberated Laurent, almost resolute now that he had no more strength in his body to keep any tension up. “A bit of a spectacle, titillating. But you’ve been one as well, once. This time you were in charge.”

Even as he lay sleepy and incoherent there was something elegant in the thread of Laurent’s thoughts, finally unfolded for Damen to follow completely. He had imagined that Laurent would have had a final aim more layered than the plan designed for Veretian perceptions. Somehow, it had not occurred to Damen that this design would also have an impact on the combined court — an endless wave of gossip, about the oddities of Veretians, but also a proof that both their Kings had been bound and manhandled a bit. 

It was far from a perfect analogy, as no court function would ever parallel a convoluted story of treasons and slavery. And yet it could be far more interesting, reshaping and muddling rumours in Palace halls and run-down taverns alike.

After a long moment of disbelieving silence, Damen was taken over by a small fit of laughter, hugging Laurent closer by the small of his back — his hand spread over the smooth skin, the tip of his middle finger almost at the top of Laurent’s ass.

“Laurent, I love you, but your mind is _twisted_.”

He could feel Laurent’s lips tensing in a smile against his shoulders. They were both sweaty, and sullied, and in desperate need of cleaning up, but Damen was too comfortable in their embrace to dislodge. 

“I love you, too,” Laurent whispered.

The admission could be there and gone, just following the flow, but Damen got a better grip on Laurent’s hair and tugged his head up to kiss him again. He trailed a path with his lips, kissing along the line of Laurent’s nose, in the spot between his eyebrows, all the way up to his forehead.

“Will there be other Récurrences?” Damen asked, in a twist of conflicting thoughts.

“This served its purpose…” Laurent started, after a second, very carefully. “Do you want it to be?”

Laurent didn’t try to meet Damen’s eyes in the darkness, but Damen still gave the question some consideration. It would have been easy, to say no and trust that Laurent would never let him share the sight of him with anyone else again. And yet, apart from the feeling burning hot inside Damen, he could grasp the weight of it — the trust, the support, the familiarity. On a deeper level, almost tinged with superstition, it felt fundamentally wrong to say that he didn’t want another Récurrence with Laurent.

Damen lowered his head and brushed their nose together, slowly, until Laurent himself exhaled away some small tension.

“Ask me again, in five years.”

Seemly caught by surprise, Laurent blinked at him — very, very close and still tangled with Damen’s limbs. Damen could almost feel the concept sinking — five years already behind them, and then five more, and give more thereafter. Laurent’s smile spread and then gave way to a burst of bubbling laughter. 

When they mouths slotted together in yet another kiss, Damen was laughing too.

  
  
  


[[[ Yet another beautiful art by [Linecrosser](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LineCrosser/pseuds/LineCrosser), who you can find in [all these places](https://linecrosser.tumblr.com/about) but particularly on [Wordpress](https://alinecrosser.wordpress.com/2018/12/25/echo-chamber/) ]]]  
  


  
  


**Author's Note:**

>  **In-depth but spoilery content warning** :  
> The five year anniversary of their marriage is marked by a very public party, and followed by a more intimate one with the inner court. It's a "game" in a very Veretian sense, Laurent will stand undressed, bound and blindfolded, in the middle of the room and a group of their very closed nobles (Akielons and Veretians alike: Vannes, Berenger, Estienne, Nikandros and Pallas) will touch him in addition to his husband. He will have to try and figure out who is it and, most importantly, try to never mistake someone else for Damen. There will be no full intercourse, it's more of a teasing and petting and pleasuring. Sweet emotional sexytimes between Damen and Laurent will follow.
> 
>  
> 
> THANK YOU FOR READING!
> 
> Come and scream at me on [my Tumblr](http://seekthemist.tumblr.com), where the ask box is always open.  
> Comments, kudos, and candies are always very much appreciated!


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